


When You Can, Be Brothers

by ValmureEld



Series: I Tried Not to Get Into the Witcher and Look Where That Got Me [24]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anger, Banter, Bigotry & Prejudice, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Drowning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Family Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 22:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14986589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValmureEld/pseuds/ValmureEld
Summary: Witchers are outcasts. They only have each other. As their numbers dwindle and the world gets harsher, that's even more true for the three brothers of Kaer Morhen.Rated for some injury and one F-bomb.





	When You Can, Be Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> I got commended for writing a lot of Witcher whump which made me want to preen and write more Witcher whump. 
> 
> Shocker. 
> 
> I have a LOT of headcannon about the three wolf school Witchers, most of which I've only discussed and never written about. I'm gonna start changing that.

“Take care of one another,” Vesimir said, hands on their shoulders as they stood in the hall leading out of Kaer Morhen.

“None of the other teachers will tell you this, but I am. You'll be apart on the path. You'll spend hard nights alone. You might come back in the winter, or you might not. No matter what happens though, Witchers are outcasts. Don't rage against it, just accept it now and your life will get easier. Even if we weren't, it's hard to treat a Witcher without being one. Nobody else went through what you boys did, and nobody else can feel what you feel. You're brothers under the same wolf. The same burden. So when you can, be brothers.”

Geralt was twenty, his eyes bright and his white hair already past his shoulders. A black band of leather he'd braided off his first worn out jerkin crossed his forehead and the two swords rested well on the back that had only properly broadened in the past year. He listened to everything Vesimir said, but it was with a colt's ferver and he wouldn't truly think on those words until many years later.

Eskel was also twenty, proudly sporting his school's armor, and though he was eager to set out, he took Vesimir's words to heart better than Geralt did. Even though they were the same age in body, Eskel saw Geralt in some ways as a younger brother. Geralt had suffered through the same trials, true, but Eskel had been the one feverishly awake at Geralt's bedside after the second round. Eskel and Geralt were the only ones who made it through their batch; when they quietly took Geralt away a second time Eskel nearly lost his mind to panic.

_Take care of one another._

“Eskel, Eskel, hey, you're okay!”

Geralt was twenty five. It was their first winter back at Kaer Morhen since the first, and many happy nights had passed drinking and sparring and swapping tales. Lambert's first winter after being a blooded witcher came with much good-natured teasing, though both Eskel and Geralt had to admit that he'd done well. Two Garkain heads and a Leshen—not shabby at all.

Most nights the Kaer Morhen witchers didn't make it to bed. That night everyone but Geralt and Eskel had—staying up later and falling asleep on each other's chests in front of the fire as they had so many nights as boys. That's how Geralt found out that Eskel hadn't really come back as healed up as he'd been pretending.

It was very early morning when Eskel began groaning. A groaning that woke Geralt with a dazed concern. He sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes and frowning down at Eskel, who was curled up with his back to him and his shoulders tense.

“Eskel?” Geralt murmured, resting his hand on his brother's shoulder. “Hey, you awake? Something wrong?”

Eskel twitched under his touch, his groaning turning into a gasping kind of begging.

“Eskel,” Geralt said again, concern lancing through him. After the trials, none of them were stranger to night terrors and he knew how gripping they could be. “Hey, wake up.”

In a blur, Eskel flipped over, his eyes wet and his chest heaving. He grabbed onto Geralt so hard it startled the other Witcher, but Geralt gripped back, meeting his eyes and steadying him. “Hey, Eskel hey, you're okay. Breathe,” Geralt encouraged, his brow furrowed with concern. He pressed on Eskel's chest, feeling a pounding under his palm far faster than they were used to. “Come on, you're okay,” he soothed, knowing how uncomfortable a pulse that quick was. “Easy. Just, breathe.”

Eskel's grip didn't ease but he gradually closed his eyes and managed to control his breathing, his jaw clenching.

“Geralt...?” he whispered eventually, and there was a hesitance there.

“Yeah, you're in the keep, it's me,” Geralt said gently, rubbing Eskel's chest soothingly.

His heart started to slow and he heaved a huge sigh beneath Geralt's hand, his gold eyes flickering open. They glowed in the low light of the embers. Geralt gave him a moment, waiting for that far away look to bleed away a little.

“You want to talk about it?”

Eskel blinked, slowly letting go of Geralt's arms and sighing, letting his arms drop back to the furs. He shook his head. “No. Won't help.”

“You sure?” Geralt asked, his hip still pressed against Eskel's, just letting his presence be near. They really didn't have personal space—hadn't since Eskel had shown up in the castle as a scared six year old with tear tracks dry on his cheeks. They'd shared a bed from the start, and after the trials thinned them out they grew up closer than any of the other boys.

“I'm sure.”

“Okay.”

Geralt bent and rest his forehead against Eskel's, a gesture that meant he was there if Eskel needed him. Eskel reached up and tangled his fingers gently in Geralt's silky hair, squeezing the back of his neck gently in acknowledgment.

_You'll spend hard nights alone. You might come back in the winter, or you might not._

“Geralt should have been here by now, shouldn't he?”

Eskel was pacing, and Lambert spat a chicken bone out, managing to get it into Coen's plate. Coen shot him a dirty look, muttering something about 'filthy wolves' as he pitched the bone back at Lambert's head. Lambert chuckled and ducked it easily.

Eskel shot them an annoyed look, his arms folded. Vesimir caught the worry, setting his drink aside. “He'll make it,” he assured, even though he was starting to worry himself. “His last letter did say he was coming. We have no reason to think he won't.”

“We have every reason,” Lambert said bluntly, sitting back and resting his back against the table. “We're Witchers. Every single job is a reason.”

Eskel really glared then, and Vesimir held his hands up. “Geralt knows what he's doing.”

“Yeah, so did Torvic,” Lambert muttered, picking up his plate and tossing it into the pile. “Just saying. Don't get attached.”

“Shut it, Lambert,” Eskel snarled, the fresh scarring on his face making the expression more menacing. A Bruxa had opened him up from forehead to jaw, and it hadn't been stitched well at all.

Vesimir watched Lambert go and sighed, silently passing by Eskel and pausing to give him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “He'll be here,” he said softly.

That night Vesimir stayed up wondering if praying to a goddess only when he was worrying would turn his prayers away ignored. He'd never put much stock in Melitele, but after spending so much time with Nenneke, at least where Geralt was involved, Vesimir found himself hoping.

Geralt showed up three days later half frozen but fine, having been caught in a river that wasn't quite fordable. He was shivering and there was ice clinging to his mail, but he was very alive and sporting two new trophies.

Vesimir pretended not to see Eskel's relieved tear as he pulled away from Geralt's collar. Even Lambert had the dignity not to say anything. He just greeted Geralt in his own way with a snarky comment and a mug of vodka.

_No matter what happens though, Witchers are outcasts. Don't rage against it, just accept it now and your life will get easier._

“Whoreson, _mutant_. Don't **ever** come near my home again!”

The man spat at Lambert's feet, and Lambert's lip curled, his skin flushed as he moved to bite back. A strong hand landed on his shoulder and held him back, making him twitch and growl.

“Lambert, let it go,” Geralt said evenly, holding fast as Lambert watched the man sneer and turn his back, shutting his door with a resounding crack. Lambert rounded on the older Witcher, fury in his eyes.

“Let it go!? I saved his and his son's hides from a rush of nekkers and this is what I get? I didn't even ask them for anything. They just assumed I'd wrench them for pay and spat on me in the field!”

His chest was heaving, his teeth clenching on each other, a mask of hurt and pain Geralt knew all too well showing beneath his anger. Geralt listened quietly, waiting for him to work himself out.

“Ploughing, pox-ridden FUCKERS!” Lambert swore, pitching a vial full of ghoul blood at the side of the house where it smashed quite satisfyingly and started drooling down the wood.

“Okay. Come on,” Geralt coaxed, concern taking over as a stream of fresh blood made its way down Lambert's hip from under his jacket. “Let's get you patched. I have a camp just up the river.”

By the light of Geralt's fire, Lambert slumped against his knees and drew sullenly from a bottle, letting Geralt work on his clawed side. Geralt was using a cloth and alcohol to clean the area carefully, knowing how bad necrophage scratches could get. “It's not deep. Do you want stitches?” he asked, gently pushing on Lambert's side so he could see against the fire better. Lambert looked under his arm at the injury and made a face.

“Don't bother.”

“Alright. Hold still.”

Geralt wrapped it for him, glancing at Lambert's far away expression. He was staring into the fire, the bottle nearly empty and hanging loose from his fingers.

“You did the right thing,” Geralt said softly, pressing his hand against the wound with a steady pressure to secure the bandage.

Lambert only grunted and threw the bottle into the fire.

_Even if we weren't, it's hard to treat a Witcher without being one._

“I—I don't think he's breathing.”

The girl's eyes were wide, her expression almost as pale as that of the man she was bending over. White haired and scarred up, he had the features of an old soldier, but it was clear from his skin and build he was still far too young to be dying already. Yet here he was, laying in the shallows of a river, no breath in his body.

“Jessa, Jessa where did you—Oh!” A woman came running from upstream, pulling up short, a look of shock crossing her fearful face as she finally spotted her daughter kneeling next to a man. “Honey, come away from there he's—it's....” she swallowed, darting close enough to snatch up her daughter, unnerved by the corpse near her.

“Cirine, did you find--” Eskel skid to a stop, seeing at first only Cirine finally holding her daughter. His relieved smile quickly faltered though, as Cirine turned away from the body in the water and hid Jessa's face in her shoulder. She met Eskel's eyes with a fearful expression. “I'm so sorry, sir....that's your friend, isn't it?”

“Geralt,” Eskel said, the name a strangled breath in his throat. He ran to Geralt, splashing in through blood and drowner remains with only the thought of getting to his brother.

He hauled him up to the shore, his mind racing. His fingers against Geralt's throat met with clammy, still flesh, and adrenaline flooded him with a fresh heat of panic. “Geralt, come on,” he pleaded, shaking Geralt with a firm grip on his armor.

Silently, Cirine retreated with her daughter, leaving Eskel unaware and alone.

Desperately, Eskel tried to think. Think—what could he do? Geralt couldn't be gone. He couldn't. “You...you gotta breathe you idiot,” he said through a sob, bending and pressing his lips against Geralt's with a long, warm breath. Twice he gave his breath to Geralt before working numbing fingers quickly across Geralt's buckles, getting his armor open. Lacing his fingers together, he settled the heel of his hand against Geralt's heart and leaned in hard, willing it to beat again. Willing the heat to come back to his body, the light to his eyes.

“Geralt,” he panted, blinking tears down that he only noticed because of their heat. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to Geralt's again, tasting salt between their lips. “Please,” he repeated.

It took far too long, but eventually, Geralt heard him.

Eskel fell back with a startled gasp when Geralt started choking, reacting quickly to help Geralt turn over and vomit up water and blood. It took a long, panicked moment for Eskel to realize it was drowner blood and blood from biting his tongue, not an internal bleed.

That night, Eskel paid for a good inn and a hot bath, and he hovered over Geralt listening to every cough and watching every wince. His ribs were plainly sore and Eskel rubbed Geralt's back with apology as he finally collapsed exhausted into the bed that night. He stated up all night, watching Geralt breathe. Listening to the bruised heart he'd abused into beating again.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I wish everything we do didn't have to turn out so ugly. I just don't know any other way to save lives.”

His words were half-hearted, because when Geralt woke the next morning and cracked a weak joke through his aching chest, Eskel couldn't see a single ugly thing about the fact that Geralt was still alive.

Years and years later, in another lifetime of its own, Eskel would learn from Shani that, had anyone else tried to massage the life back into Geralt's body, they would have very likely failed. Only a Witcher, or perhaps a vampire with a gentle disposition, had the strength to properly compress another Witcher's sternum.

_Nobody else went through what you boys did, and nobody else can feel what you feel._

“You've turned into an absolute wuss, Geralt. A vineyard? Really?”

“Don't see anything wrong with as much free wine as I want. Sounds like jealousy to me, Lambert,” Geralt said slyly, reclining smugly and resting his arm around Yennefer's waist. Yennefer rolled her eyes and delicately took his hand off of her hip, tilting his jaw up and pressing a kiss to his lips before standing.

“I have no desire to be part of your purile bragging. Come get me when the conversation moves past this, yes?”

Geralt snorted and Eskel chuckled, leaning contently against the table in Corvo Bianco's hall, swirling the wine around. “You have put on a little weight since you moved in here,” he said teasingly, raising a playful eyebrow. “You think your sorceress won't start eyeing up the tourney knights if you let yourself go?”

Geralt snorted and crossed his arms. “I'd like to see any of them manage Yennefer.”

“Geralt, _you_ don't manage Yennefer,” Lambert said bluntly, pouring himself another glass and then thinking better of it and just taking the bottle.

“My point exactly.”

“You're so full of it,” Lambert snorted, putting his feet up on the table and stretching out.

“And you're full of my wine, so I still fail to see how I'm the one losing here,” Geralt ribbed. “Not like you're free from the sorceress leash yourself. How's Keira?”

Lambert didn't answer, too busy with the bottle and his middle finger up.

Eskel laughed and took a drink of his own wine, glancing fondly at Shani as she passed him. She touched his shoulder with affection before continuing on through the house, Regis at her side. They were talking animatedly about some new page of the textbook they were writing together, and Eskel watched her go with a warm expression before Geralt tossed a grape at him.

“Hey, pick your heart up before someone steps on it,” he teased, a smile in his eyes.

“You're one to talk,” Eskel snorted, but he was smiling too. “You've had every emotion for Yennefer on raw display since the day you met her.”

“GODS,” Lambert exclaimed loudly, setting the bottle back on the table with an attention-demanding smack. “You're both such WOMEN. Can we all just be adults--”

“Woah, Lambert, don't go asking us to do something you never learned how to do!” Geralt cut him off, ducking as Lambert threw a roll at his head. He was laughing. “Just because you can't admit Keira has you hook line and sinker--”

“She does NOT--”

“Hey, no shame, brother,” Eskel teased, holding both hands up. “I would judge you for falling into the sorceress trap too but seems like I'm the only one immune so...”

“Yeah, your woman just uses you as a lab rat.”

“Hey, I don't judge you for your pastimes,” Eskel said mildly, looking over his glass. “She actually uses me to help teach classes. Which is a little more....useful than—wait, what does Keira use you for again? Court jester maybe?”

Geralt laughed as Lambert reached for another food item to throw, only to fall against the table as Eskel struck out with a quick hand and snatched it first, taking a triumphant bite and barely managing to swallow it down before Lambert was across the table and wrestling him out of his chair.

_You're brothers under the same wolf. The same burden. So when you can, be brothers._

**Author's Note:**

> Look--I know Eskel's scars have a cannon base in the games but tbh the thought that Eskel would hide from an angry, hurting young woman rather than at least try to talk to her sounds like hogwash to me so I'm retconning it. 
> 
> This fic obviously also takes place inside the 'cannon' I've constructed with my friend BlueNeutrino where Eskel and Shani end up in a very content relationship and Shani and Regis make all kinds of amazing breakthroughs in medicine together. 
> 
> I'm also aware that with Coen and the crazy timeline with Ciri growing up many of these scenes probably don't work. I don't really care. Fit them in wherever. I like the idea of Coen being an honorary wolf but pretending like he hates it because Cat school Witchers are clearly so much less rowdy. I don't know that we have confirmation of what school Coen is actually from, but after seeing some very amusing discussions on the banter that could happen if he was actually from the Cat school I just decided to adopt it. Plus I like the idea that schools swapped teachers sometimes. It would be beneficial. 
> 
> We'll just say this is all pre-Ciri until the end. How's that?


End file.
